“Ah, that’s it!” said Morley.
“Do you know anything about it?” said Mr Lockyer at last, with an effort.
“Me! Do you think I’m a thief?” said Morley, flushing up. “If you do, you’re welcome to search the house now.”
“Oh, I daresay!” sneeringly returned his master, liking his yard-keeper’s manner less than ever. “It would be easy finding three notes, wouldn’t it, if you liked to hide them well? I might as well look for a needle in a haystack. No, no, Morley; I don’t say you took them, or that you didn’t, but they’re to be found, and I’ll leave that to the men that are bred to the trade—the police or the detectives.”
“Yes, they’re the best hands at that,” said Morley feebly.
No strong and indignant protestations of innocence; no hot words, or tears, or reproaches; nothing but that meaningless answer, and that look of guilt and fear.
“The man’s a thief if looks are to be trusted,” thought the builder. “If it turns out so, I’ll never be kind to mortal being again.”
Mr Lockyer had done a foolish thing; he had let the man know he was suspected; but in the action he had been prompted by the best of intentions. He had failed in these, and he now did the next best thing to redeem the mistake—he came to us with news of the robbery. He described the circumstances of the robbery and the position of the place much as I have put them down, and concluded by stating it to be his firm belief that Morley was either himself the thief, or knew how the clever robbery had been accomplished. I agreed with him, but blamed him strongly for going near the suspected man.
“It is the money you are most anxious to recover, and yet you go and put the man on his guard. You may make up your mind now that you will never see the notes again. They will either go into the fire, or be put away in some hiding-place far beyond our reach.”
“That’s nice comfort to a fellow,” observed the builder ruefully. “Is there anything you can do?”